Inexorable Descent
by lost frequencies.
"But it's too late, always has been, always will be too late." — Dr. Manhattan
.*.*.*.
Memories meandered like poison trickling through cracks in the walls of this mental prison.
If only fate had been patient, he would have succeeded. He would have been relieved of his inner hurt, his familiarity with loneliness and a childhood longing to be rescued from harm. He would have been spared from the leaden weight of God's punishment. But Rorschach refused to believe in fate neither did he believe God had anything to do with what happened on that night.
I have broken free; reborn from ashes of sweltering furnace fuelled by past regrets. But I feel nothing of them now.
Time progressed since then, ushering further into the harshness of winter.
In a rundown apartment where he lived amidst the growing stacks of political literature, dirty laundry and leftovers infested with maggots and roaches, the stench of little Roche's blood still lingered on with his regrets.
Time for work, he thought, as he reached for his journal on the study desk.
He tucked it inside a hidden breast pocket of his coat and headed out the window like he always did. Then the sudden rush of vertigo hit him as he crawled down the fire escape. A trembling hand slipped off the snow-covered rail and he tumbled down a small flight of steps before hitting the ground on all fours. He rolled on his back with limbs sprawled about the wet concrete floor, face creasing in agony.
Kovacs is dying. Heard him break like porcelain. A statue so fragile, feared like a god, but rendered powerless to rebuild self from shattered pieces. He is nothing.
Failing her had robbed him completely of his well-being. Weak from hunger and sickness, his body shuddered to get on its feet again.
Nothing but an imposter.
"Mother," he exhaled into the dry winter air. She was staring down at him with one hand resting against her hip. Her mouth was moving but he couldn't hear a word she was saying. He then fixed his blurry gaze on the crescent moon peaking over the apartment buildings. "Leave me be," he whispered again, although he knew she was no longer there.
"Have places to go. Things to do."
And I shall step forward as own true self. As what others fear to see.
He stood up and felt his stomach churn. Demons sprung from his hallucinations followed closely behind. He knew where he was going but was too feverishly ill to remember why. He could hear the whores laughing at him. Their laughter turned into high-pitched screams. (Like the whir of Archimedes' engines.)
"Hey, you!" intruded a voice.
He woke up disoriented, the side of his face pressed against the window inside a cab.
"We're here," informed the driver.
He was broke.
"This ain't no charity ride, asshole. Pay the fuck up!"
He smashed the driver's face into the windscreen.
Evil is generous with its offerings, enticing the gullible masses with ill-gained treasures. They walk over the righteous, the ones who took the weight of world's burden, only to be buried alive by forces of compromise.
Upon entering the warehouse, he wore his face over the rotting human disguise and became his black and white self again. Rorschach remembered his way down the abandoned tracks leading towards Dreiberg's workshop.
"Have places to go," his voice echoed in the tunnel. "Things to do."
Allies of the weak. I avert my gaze.
There never was anyone else.
No one.
Except him.
They don't know me these..."masks". They betray own sanity and duty to justice, selling themselves like whores lined up on sidewalk.
His knees trembled under him as they could no longer sustain his weight.
I am alone.
Halfway into the tunnel he blacked out, falling face first into the tracks.
Alive. In this dying city.
And Dreiberg—was not there.